Day One of Year Two
by seeyoustandingthere
Summary: "Now they were facing each other, and there were things to be said over the coffee that steamed gently."   Don and Stella evaluate some buried emotions around the year's anniversary of Angell's death.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I began writing this some time ago. Flack and Stella became my muse - and I was all but finished this when I read that Stella was being written out. It stalled me - but I have decided it is better to finish a piece, no matter what. So here it is - I should say that it is set in the current space and time - spoilers for pretty much everything that has gone before S6, although fairly non-specific ones. Some poetic licence employed, that is the beauty of writing.

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Day One of Year Two.

Flack.

He was thinking of his mother. In her plaid chair by the bay window, looking out at the street coming to life, telling him a truth she thought he didn't know, that was how he thought of her. Liberation, catharsis, damnation, redemption, acquiescence. She seemed to want him to know these words. Like she could know that he would need them, and that she wouldn't be around when he did.

He didn't know what he needed, but he was ginger about it. Something that hadn't quite become a wish or a feeling was under the surface, but it wasn't jostling to get out. He liked to leave things well alone. Part of the cop instinct –with others, dig down deep, but don't waste time on exposition. No-one needs to know you like your coffee white in the morning, black in the afternoon.

His head rolled a little on the headrest – he was tired, and the sun broke weakly over the dash as he waited for the light to change. The radio in the car crackled reassuringly; business as usual. Lazily he allowed his mind to wander further. Last night's after work beer with Danny in a bar near his house. Beads of sweat on his neck when they left, the first warm day in a while. This morning's ride to work and the quiet hour in the precinct that had come about by chance. The low zing of the elevator as it tipped him out in the lab after lunch, and Mac's back to him, looking out over the city while he talked on the phone. Stella.

Stella.

She smoothed her hair back behind her ears, leaning further over the evidence table. The light was bright on the back of her retinas now. Aching a little. She shifted position, sighed. So much still to do, a long afternoon stretching ahead. That familiar roll of the stomach that nothing's wrong but all things aren't right, either. That's Stella talk, Mac would say. A radio played somewhere in another room, but she couldn't pick out the words. She flexed her back to stave off the fatigue and focused anew. Arms of a sweater blurred at the edges on the white table as she searched it again. And again. The job's a gift, but it comes at a price.

The morning replayed, its warmth still on her skin. A long drive in traffic, a hot scene, then a tense arrest, thumbs on holster catches until the cuffs clicked shut. Breathe out. A long round of questioning. The wrong guy. Plenty of evidence, no answers. Yet. A lunch eaten on the run, so to speak, down at the cart on the street below, looking for clarity in fresh air. The midday crowd thronged either side of her and she felt like a rock in a stream. When she returned, Hawkes brought her news of the autopsy, providing a little context. She thanked him, and wondered if she'd had a brother whether he could have made her feel as warm as Sheldon's lovely smile did. Since then she had kept her phone on the table next to her - ring, dammit, ring - because she was getting the fire in the belly now - the need to close.

She barely looked up as Mac passed, the swish of his crisply pressed jacket so comforting. They don't need to look at each other to be engaged. Back in his office, he picked up the phone, which must have been ringing, but she couldn't hear it.

"Hey," Flack.

She turned, hopeful. He came bearing good news, she could tell. His smile was infectious, and he didn't hesitate - a lead, an address, did she want to go with. Did she ever. He swung back out of the room, reaching out and unhooking her jacket on his way. He threw it to her, one smooth motion, and they didn't even check their strides. She wouldn't need it, but she took it anyway.

Flack's driving had improved. She liked to think that her once growling 'drive nice!' as he cornered rather too quickly, had sunk in. That or he was getting old. She looked over as he palmed the wheel round several turns and gave their location over the radio at the same time. Angell's death still clung to the lines on his face.

It made her wonder what she'd looked like to those who knew better after Frankie. Once the obvious scars had healed. When she was left with only her private demons, the bile in her throat at the sight of her own bathtub, a lifelong womanly ritual now ruined. She showers now, and it took her a long time to do so without the door open, and her gun on the edge of the sink. Longer than she'd say.

Flack's demons were different. She was smart enough to know that she couldn't help him simply by being someone else to whom a bad thing had happened. She wouldn't belittle him like this. He was beset by helplessness and, she suspected, somewhat stripped of himself by having been unable to save her. What he did the job for every day for years, and he couldn't protect her. He was smart enough to know this wasn't his fault, but that truth was probably weak in the small hours of the months of empty nights that had passed since her death.

Stella looked over at his profile as he peered over a line of traffic, his finger dancing over the switch for the bluesandreds. She wondered if he thought Angell was the one. He pulled out of the line of cars, flicking the switch at the same time, and the surging motion left Stella's stomach behind for a second. He glanced over, waiting for a reprimand, but she was with him, her arm along the window of the car, not white knuckled but cool. No matter how many years on the job, there was still something about screaming down a crowded street in a police car that set her nerves on fire. Flack was focused on the road, weaving in and out. Stella leaned into the back for their vests, just in case. Some things never got old.

They tore past the building where Angell had been shot. Flack looked, and Stella followed his gaze, before they were back in the chase, focused on the road ahead.

"Almost a year," he said, and it took her a moment to work out what he meant.

They had gotten their man. Stella, gun raised, fingers curling and uncurling around the butt, waited, counting silently, mouthing two, three, four. Flack, opposite, eyes trained on her, nodded on four, and swung around the door jamb, popping it off its hinges with one shoulder. Stella crashed in, the chaos of identifying themselves and scanning the room and cops streaming past her from behind, guns out, causing her heart to race out of her chest. The guy was in bed, at four in the afternoon, his hair stuck straight up in a shock of fuzz as he was hauled up by officers.

Flack tucked his gun away as the guy was led down to the cop cars below. His chest rose and fell quicker than usual, mirroring the quickening beneath her own vest. We are the job. He nodded to her, circled his shoulder a couple of times and broke a small smile.

"Tell me there's beer at the end of this day," he said, and she smiled, and they followed the officers down the hall to the stairwell, leaving behind them the splintered door, shoved back in the space where it used to hang.

Stella listened to her own footsteps back out on the street. She was haunted a little by the fact that she had walked Angell into danger more than once in the months leading up to her death. In harm's way, asking more of her than the job did, and Angell had gone willingly. Seeing Flack's face the day she died, would she have done that if she'd known? Things had been so precarious, and she had been cluelessly adding to the likelihood that something would go wrong. She tried not to think about the fact that she'd done that before, letting Frankie into her life, not getting the force involved even once he'd started to get weird. She hadn't seen it as a risk at the time, not until It was too late. She tried not to think about Flack, and how he must feel. She tried not to think about the reasons for his not telling her. She tried not to think about the honest truth - that she might not have wanted to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.**

**Thanks for reading ****J**

**Flack.**

**In the beginning, beer had been good to him. It was so good for hiding. It made ends of long days into nights quicker than anything else. It halted detailed thoughts, and prevented fervent activity, like the sudden urge to go through everything you own. It was sociable, and it helped you sleep. He had developed a pattern, and although he was careful to keep it to a few and never let it become a case, or a staggering home after midnight that you could smell on him the following morning, for a while it was a buffer. He figured now that it was okay. Some people did that. Some people shut down forever. He'd gotten back to reality eventually and these days it was a few once or twice a week, and in a bar, rather than propped against the dark wall of his living room, in silence, facing down the quiet and the still.**

**It wasn't really his lover that he missed. As terrible as that was. Before they had started sleeping together, they had been friends, good friends. They'd hung out every so often, talked during shift, shared jokes and lunch and sometimes a sad moment or two. There were years of this to miss, compared to mere months of thinking of Jess as his girl. It still seemed hazy to think in those terms. **

**He struggled to tell people about her. He didn't know what to say. They hadn't reached the part where they decided what they were. He didn't know if it was for keeps. They'd run out of time, and this burned worse than anything. Such vague, changeable grief. He couldn't say that out loud, though. To the rest of the world she was his, and no-one dared ask about how long or what the prognosis was.**

**People left him alone now. For the first few months this had suited him fine, when he had wanted nothing more than to sit in stucco, suspended in grief and anger and let it wash over him. He knew he had to see it through. Now, though, he was beginning to want out of the dark. The last three months had been different. He'd been on a date (disastrous), which he and Danny had laughed about the next day. They'd been to countless ball games (six wins, some losses - you didn't count those - one foam finger). They'd gone out to bars, Flack teasing Danny for his new, saintly ways. He'd gone back to the NYPD gym instead of working out alone, at home. In some ways Danny's recovery had spurred his own. Nothing seemed that bad when your buddy couldn't walk. Danny's friendship was one of the best things he still had. **

**Mac and Stella, though. They'd had to save him. It was different with both of them now, and he was re charting territory every day. The courses this had thrown up were nothing like he'd imagined.**

**Mac had brought him round, coaxed him into work mode again, shown him quietly that he was there for him, without it getting too obvious or emotional. He was thankful for that. No-one but Mac and Stella seemed to know he'd really been gone.**

**Stella had shown up at his place one night with a six pack, sat against that wall with him and drank in silence. Her presence seemed to say that if this was what grief looked like to him, she'd go with it. He was just going through the motions most days, just barely holding it together for work. She'd known it, he'd known it. She'd asked if he wanted to talk. He'd said no thank you, because he didn't trust the sound of his voice then. She'd nodded, and said nothing more about it. When the beer was gone, Stella was gone, and that was the first time since Jess' death that he'd missed anything but her. **

**Things had been careful and quiet since, Stella somehow aware that she was not privy to Flack's private emotions. He didn't know how to fix this. He wanted to tell her that no-one was. But that would have involved the opening up thing he was so deftly avoiding, and so he had just tried to go back to normal, hoping that normal would fix it for him. But she was different.**

**Stella.**

**The early morning sun did little to lighten the mood she felt closing around her. In spite of yesterday's good result and an almost-closed case, she was dissatisfied, and couldn't put her finger on why. She'd started the day the same as usual, coffee, bagel, drive to work and a few minutes with Mac in his office before the melee began. They were both periodically early, and cherished their moments together away from the hustle of the lab. Talking solved cases as much as science, sometimes. New York sunshine beat into the hall as she carried her second cup of coffee down to the layout room, ready for action and the arrival of the team. Laying down her file she turned as she had the day before, when Flack had been behind her, and she thought she heard his voice somewhere. She listened. Nothing. Now that wasn't something she usually did. She shook her head and got down to work, willing someone else to arrive so that she could be swept up in the torrent of work that everyone here relied on for their sanity. **

**Eventually, of course, he appeared, with Mac, talking into his radio as Mac dragged crime scene photos around on the handheld. He passed this off to her as Flack signed off and joined their conversation. Flack nodded at Stella, and she moved from one foot to the other, uncomfortable but not sure why. Mac shared his thoughts, and sent them back to the scene, to prove a theory he'd been working on. **

"**Did you get your beer?" she asked, trying to force a return to the previous day's joviality and ignoring the strange tension she felt.**

"**I did," he said, and nodded. He left it at that, and Stella's mind drew a picture that she didn't like. She was busy scolding herself for doing that, and wondering why she would do that, while he guided her out the building and onto the street. They walked among the crowds, midday heat coming up through the grates beneath their feet, steamy lunchtime air into which they fed very few words that weren't to do with work. She knew they were being careful around one another, like they were these days wont to be, but she didn't entirely know why. Because she felt guilty that Angell was dead? Because she was pissed off that he hadn't told her they were together? Because he was tall? It wasn't making sense. In fifteen years they'd never got to this.**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack.

It was catching. Stella was off, and he was off now, too. This building reminded him of those that were no more - Aiden, Angell, the bodies, cases and pieces of evidence that had come and gone. The sight of Aiden putting one in the hole sprang to mind, a vision from a time before Angell and before whatever it was that made everything now so blurry.

"Hey," he murmured, as they walked out into the hot afternoon.

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?" She turned and looked at him, full bore. What he saw there disarmed him.

"Yes, I'm sure." He paused, losing step with her. She looked round.

"Come on," she called, and that was the end of that.

Stella

She was being odd, and she knew it. She couldn't seem to regulate her behaviour or her tongue. A bead of sweat swam slowly down her back as they walked, and she was uncomfortable.

She didn't have time to think any more, as an almighty bang rang out. Flack was beside her, pulling her flush to the front of the nearest shop, his arms over hers. They held the position for a few seconds while assessing the situation, and then pulled back, seeing that it was just a car. It had carved itself around the nearest streetlight. Steam poured from the engine and the driver, slinking out of the crumpled door, began to make off down the street. Flack was away after him, Stella quick to pull the keys from the ignition and her radio from her belt. She looked up to see Flack vaulting the hoods of cars further up the queue, giving chase in his usual dramatic fashion. He was fast, and it wasn't long before he had his man.

When he reappeared, barely breaking a sweat, bleeding driver by the scruff of his jacket, Stella put her hands on her hips.

"Nice job," she said. He inclined his head towards her. They'd barely made it a hundred yards from the lab.

"Is this a guy thing? You're the man, so you have to do the running?"

"Want me to let him go so you can catch him yourself?" he said, cuffing the guy over the hood of the wrecked car. She rolled her eyes.

"My pa taught me that when you're out with a beautiful woman you should always do the chasing." She had to smile, and was rewarded with a wink and a sideways grin as he pulled the guy upright. Uniforms arrived and took the man away. The feel of his arms around her stayed.

Flack

Stella seemed distant, and it bothered him some. He'd made her smile with his kamikaze chivalry, but she wasn't herself.

How to unravel such a woman?

He wondered sometimes if she dated. She was so private, he felt sure that she must have a full life behind the exterior she wore to work. She was too… Stella… not to be fighting off men and have friends queuing up to spend time with her. Like him, she didn't volunteer information, and he, now acutely aware of the tender nerves that innocent questions could snag, didn't ask those questions of others.

He remembered crashing into her apartment that day. He could smell the fear rolling off him and off Mac, whom Flack had never before or since seen quite so affected. It got worse as she wasn't in any of the places they looked. The hall, empty, as they frantically announced themselves. The bathroom, peppered with the props of a horror movie, or so it seemed, blood, rags, razor blades, clothing. It looked too much like scenes they went to every day for there to be a happy ending there.

The moment he caught sight of Stella on the ground, he would not forget. He'd never seen Mac move like that. Stiff strides, laced with terror. She'd been face down, and as Mac had turned her over, Flack couldn't look. If the worst was true, he didn't want to see it. If she was alive, Mac ought to be with her. All he could think then was to make sure that the guy on the floor, the guy who he'd never liked, was dead. Because there was only one story from where he was standing, and his rage was so pure then, he wouldn't have remained impartial if Frankie had moved.

He'd looked over at Stella, trembling on the ground as Mac cradled her face, so grateful for a pulse. He realised then that there was so much he didn't know. This man he didn't know how well she knew. That dress he'd never seen her wear. This situation that had got so far before anyone knew anything. His heart ached for her, and he wanted to do the one thing he probably couldn't ever- make her feel safe again.

Stella

Flack was trying to get through to her, but she was lost, for now. There was suddenly too much to wade through. One year. Angell. One year. And this damn case.

The scene was stagnant, in so many ways. It stank in the heat, and Stella pulled her gloves on outside the door, trying not to breathe the air a moment before she had to. There was very little left ; most of it was in bags at the lab. Stella worked tirelessly, the familiar ache opening up in her back before long. She was strangely protective of this - it reminded her of years of service. She swept the place twice, finding nothing new, bagging a few extra pieces of carpet and clothing. She returned to the front door and found him, leaning.

"Walk it with me," she said, setting down the brown paper bags she carried. Flack nodded, entering the apartment and standing beside her. He followed her gaze to the sash window on the opposite side, the tatty curtain billowing in the breeze.

"Exit route," she indicated. He nodded. She turned to her right. "Primary scene." He looked over her shoulder at the large blood pool on the linoleum there. Nodded. She moved into the ante chamber, nearing the victorian bathroom. "Body ended up here." He looked at the bath tub, the rusty stains that etched the sides.

"Why move the body? Unless you're going to take it away from the primary?" he asked.

"Exactly. That's what we don't know."

"Okay," Flack said, "reasons to move a body…. someone came home?"

"Possible. But the blood trail was still visible."

"Smell? Its further from the front door."

"True."

"Its closer to the window." Stella waited for the justification. Looked up at him.

"Maybe the killer had to show someone they'd completed the job. You can't see the kitchen from the window." Something clicked.

"We know he made a call, just after time of death."

"Calling whoever hired him?"

"Maybe," Stella pursed her lips, pulling out her own phone to relay this back to the lab. The snap of her gloves rang out in the quiet room. Pinning the phone to her shoulder with her ear, she mouthed a thank you. He raised an eyebrow in answer and watched as the latex dust fluttered to the ground in the late light from the window. So much that was barely visible.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack.

The precinct after dark was a different place. It wound down around ten, except on weekends, when the world got a little crazy. Flack got off at eleven, and by then he had done three days' worth of paper pushing and returned six calls. One to Mac, who had confirmed that he and Stella had made progress. One to Jess's pa, who called him once a month, and who reminded him, as if he didn't know, what tomorrow was. He hadn't forgotten. It was like a rock rolling uphill. Part of him wanted it, hoped it would serve as a milestone, a good one. Part of him dreaded it, the inevitable dragging up that would occur. The kid gloves that would come out.

He'd thought about taking the day off, just to avoid it. Awkward moments when people worked it out. They'd either dance around it and hope he hadn't noticed the date, or they'd think him callous for going on like nothing was wrong. He couldn't win, and he didn't really want to try. Where was the book on how to behave with things like this?

In the end he'd settled for working. Better to be busy, and with any luck he'd spend most or all of the day with people who wouldn't know, or if they did know, would leave well alone.

On his way home, he stopped into St Mary Margaret's on the street above his. He took a candle, lit it and left it burning. He didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say. But he knew that Jess knew, and he asked her silently to forgive him. For not being there. For not knowing their future when they'd had one. For the little sinew of his heart that had pulled free and was growing apart, putting down roots elsewhere, wanting to move on. The candle's flame bent and recovered as a draft licked around it. Like Jess, a light that would go on through all kinds of darkness. It flickered as he retreated down the aisle, steps echoing on the wooden tile.

Stella

Morning came around so slowly, stretching and yawning its way into being. She was impatient for it, wanting to be moving and among people, not laying still and wishing for sleep.

She was tired, but wide awake, and as the light came around the edge of the drape, smudged into a grey blue wash on the terrace, she got up. Wrapped in a blanket, she threw back the drape and opened the door. The warmth and sounds of the city below were like a favourite sweater around her shoulders. She made coffee, far too early to go to work, and sat outside, head against the wall of the terrace. She loved the feel of the city, the vibrations on her cheek as it shuddered into life one person, one car, one minute at a time.

She thought of Lindsay and Lucy. She knew they too saw a lot of this hour of the morning, and she wondered if Lindsay was at this moment looking out on Stella's city, fatigue dragging at her, trying to be bright and funny for her little girl. Stella imagined that kind of bond, the person you would get up any time of day or night for, who you'd never blame, or leave, or get bored of. It felt so very far away.

She heard her phone bleep. Padding in to get it, she read the message that popped up. Only one person didn't worry about contacting her this early in the morning. _Early breakfast with A. Join us?_ slid across the screen. She smiled. She loved that Mac was happy, and that he was so selfless about it. That the two women in his life fit so neatly into compartments and he hadn't needed to say a word about it. That was the sign of a really genuine guy - no mixed signals, no subtext, one a friend, one a girlfriend, and yeah, they can all have breakfast together, why not.

Not today, though. _Thanks, but not today. Coffee later? _

Stella showered, and dressed, taking her time. She thought of Adam, and the thank you she owed him that he'd never get. It was all rolled into the same bundle. Jess, the name that repeated in her mind as Adam undressed her, and even as she was surprising herself with the utter peace she felt, Jess was there. It all started with her. One day, she was another cop. The next, she was Don's dead girlfriend. Then before anybody knew it she was the subject of an emotional goodbye. And then glass was flying and Danny was bleeding and everybody, no exceptions, thought for one moment that they were going to die. Four hours later, Stella walked down the steps of the hospital and saw Adam.

The rest, at the time, felt like a history book she'd already read. After Frankie, she had known that the next time would be different. She knew it couldn't be a love thing. It couldn't be something that her happiness depended upon, because Frankie had obliterated the relationship between sex and love and Stella. She needed to rebuild it, and she felt quite certain that the first time she'd mess it up, or run away No. It had to be someone she just liked. A good person, a person she wasn't threatened by, or new to. Someone she could trust to really want her, but not want anything from her. She didn't pick Adam out, but as soon as he was in her apartment, and the door was locked to the outside world, she knew he was right.

She thanked Jess, then. Cursed her when Flack disappeared off everyone's radar. She didn't mean it, but in the moment, as anxiety gnawed, that's where her mind went. Missed her when a new woman detective accompanied her on a case involving a particularly pathetic guy who, when questioned, showed Stella the panties he was wearing . Jess would've given her that sideways smile, mouthed 'oh boy' as the guy whipped out the lace. New girl didn't crack a smile. Now, a whole year, and the wound was bound to reopen. Yes, that woman was everywhere. Stella knew her better than ever.

She shut off the water, dripped out into the bathroom and wrapped herself in a towel. Looked in the mirror, saw her lips in a firm line. No, this was not the time to wonder whether the reason she had thought about Jess so much more since she died was because she had been thinking about Flack a whole lot more too. Pushing that away, she thanked her investigator's brain. The ability to keep things in boxes - very useful.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

It seemed the thing to do, taking flowers. Skipping lunch, he took a cab to the cemetery and met Ted at the gates. He looked better, fuller in the face and chest, like a balloon gradually inflating again. He greeted Flack like a son, and it made his stomach flip.

They stood in silence for a while, cutting a swathe through acres of empty graveyard. Neither sure what to say. Laid their flowers, sighed, shuffled their feet. As the sun went behind the clouds, Ted clapped him on the back gently.

"I hope life is looking after you Don. We don't see much of you."

"Work, is…," Don began, but they both knew he was lying. He was unsure why he felt guilt nipping at his heels. He didn't owe Jess' family anything, and at the same time owed them everything.

"Its okay to move on, son."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. To be happy. To laugh. To meet someone. One day you'll want to. Jess would want it. I want it. And I hope if there is ever a Mrs Flack, we'll know her well."

Flack nodded sadly. Damn this weight that wouldn't lift.

"Tell me something Ted," he said, digging his hands in his pockets, blinking. Ted tilted his chin.

"How the hell does one move on?" Ted nodded.

"Honestly? I have no idea." Flack smiled.

"But I think you'll know when it happens."

Ted left him standing there a few minutes later, after extracting a promise from him to call more. Flack watched him leave and then turned back to the brilliantly shiny headstone. He had to clear the fog in his mind. It was thieving his edge. For a moment, he'd thought Ted actually had someone in mind. _We'll know her well_. Someone they both knew. And he could only think of two women they both knew. And only one of them wasn't married to Danny.

Stella

Mac arrived one and a half minutes late for their shift, which made Stella inexplicably happy. He smelled of blueberry pancakes, and she borrowed the sweetness of his morning and shared it. They had a bright and swift run down meeting in his office, and the smile he gave her when she left to go and collect Hawkes for their first case made everything seem okay. When the world was atilt, only Mac could balance it. Stella loved him for it, and loved even more that she could love Mac so honestly and without guile.

Sheldon had remembered, and for some reason that left her mildly surprised. He was perhaps least close to Flack. But his mention of it gave Stella leave to say what was on her mind, and before she knew it Sheldon was calling Danny and Danny was telling Mac and Lindsay and they were destined to meet at day's end. Sheldon hung up as Stella swung the wheel of the car sharp left.

"Shall I call Flack, too?" he asked, leaning one hand on the dash. Stella accelerated, changed lanes.

"Sure."

And just like that it was done.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Okay - some of these chapters are short - but I like to keep some clear blue water between them. Don't get click fatigue J

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

Sheldon's call was unexpected, and cut a small square of soft stuff inside him. Hawkes wasn't a friend, not in the way Danny or Stella were, so it coming from him was either suspect or touching. He chose the latter, telling himself that it didn't matter who suggested it, or that he was wondering whether it had, in fact, come from someone else, and all the further wondering that led to. Either way, alcohol and company at the end of this of all days suddenly seemed like a great idea.

He was surprised at himself. Seeing Ted had changed things, and he couldn't pinpoint why. That afternoon he felt lighter, and whatever the cause was determined to run with it because God knew it had been so many months of heavy.

At three fifteen a gang of eastern european prostitutes were brought into the precinct, and he spent a frustrating hour alternating between trying to communicate with them and repeatedly calling the language line. As five o clock swept up the last few bits of work for the day, he pulled out his cell and punched in a text message. _You coming tonight?_ Twelve minutes went by, in which he drank a cup of very hot coffee and started another report. Then it beeped. _Of course._

Stella

The bar was hot, and quiet. What Danny called chick music was playing in the background as she weaved her way through the maze of tables to the booths at the back. She could see Mac, nodding as he listened to something Flack said. Lindsay, following Stella, detoured to meet Danny, who was carrying an armful of beers from the bar. Sheldon and Adam were due, and she glanced out of the sheet glass windows for any sign of them.

The frosted panes bore no evidence of the shattering and spillage of blood the place had seen less than a year ago. Stella let her eyes sweep over the spot on the floor where she had lain, inches from Danny who was bleeding too much for it to be nothing. That night had felt like the end of something. Yet it many ways it had been a new beginning. She, for one, had not been the same since.

She watched as Flack ran a hand through his hair and smiled tightly at Danny as he set down the beers. Still he was not a hundred percent in the room. She wished she knew how to bring him back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.**

**Thanks for reading ****J**

**Flack**

**He tried not to notice as Stella swung her hips between the small tables in the bar, threading her way towards them. He tried on a smile for Danny as he handed him a beer, still talking to Mac, who had asked him how Jess' family were getting on. He talked about them a little, feeling like a fraud because he just hadn't managed to crack that whole 'they're still your family even though she's gone' thing. Mac was talking about Claire, and he couldn't fight the feeling rising up in his throat : it wasn't the same.**

**He was grateful for Stella sliding into the booth beside Mac, for its changing the dynamic and for her starting a new thread of conversation by, true to Stella form, talking about work. That woman was nothing if not wedded to that job. Somehow it was better, better than the alternative. **

**Soon after Sheldon and Adam arrived, squeezing seven into a booth made for six, sipping cold beer and greeting everyone, a hush descended. Clink, as the barman spun a glass in his left hand, impressing a couple of girls waiting for cocktails. Flack looked up at them all, their eyes cast down as though there was something they weren't telling him.**

"**Come on you guys. Let's not get deep." he said, "haven't we done enough of that?" Mac looked up, met his gaze, understood.**

"**A toast, then?" Don nodded. **

"**To a great detective, and a great friend, and a beautiful heart, whom we miss still, every day." Stella's eyes crept up from the table, and Don engaged them. Glasses and bottles were raised, and still he held her gaze.**

"**To Jess," she said, quietly, not looking away. The others murmured the words in almost unison, drinking. Flack dared to hold Stella with him for one more moment, and then Lindsay was speaking, and she was gone.**

**Stella**

**One thing beat a path through her brain. One little thing. She stood at the bar, ordering a second round, volunteering so that she could have a moment with the perplexion that threatened to show on her face. **_**A good friend**_**. That's what he had said. **_**Friend?**_** She'd thought they were in love. No matter how much you didn't want to rub in the fact that you'd had a different kind of relationship with someone your team had **_**all**_** loved, they all knew, they all referred to it all the time. Why reduce the sentiment now?**

**Whatever was behind that, he seemed to have relaxed somewhat, and was busy ribbing Danny about the fact that, when Lindsay had suggested he not have 'too many' since it was his turn to get up with Lucy that night, Danny had nodded like Lindsay had had a really good idea and said 'Okay babe'. Just like that. **

**Stella began to gather the beer bottles by their necks, until hands came from her right and took them from her. **

"**You okay?", Adam asked, as they walked back. You seem distracted."**

"**I'm fine," she answered.**

"**Alright," he said, unconvinced. "Just checking in. I'm leaving now, anyway." Stella flashed him a smile that said thank you, and he returned it, and she marvelled at the fact that, out of something so potentially messy had come something so simple and sweet. **

**It wasn't until Adam was out the door that it occurred to her that he was now what she'd call **_**a good friend**_**. That penny dropped hard.**


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

By nine, Mac, Stella and Flack remained. Mac stayed until Aubrey appeared, detouring from dinner with a friend. He and Stella encouraged them to stick around, and as the chick music gave way to live piano, he could see Aubrey eyeing Mac slyly. She leaned closer to Stella. "What do you think my chances are?" Stella smiled and flicked a glance at Mac, who looked worried.

"Medium. I've heard he _can_ dance, although I can't say I've seen it with my own eyes." Aubrey nodded, and Mac raised his eyebrows in question. Stella and Aubrey in cahoots. Definitely cause for concern, Flack thought. Aubrey tugged him to his feet and gave him little choice in the matter. He watched Stella watch them, her chin balanced elegantly on her upturned palm. She looked…happy.

"She seems nice," he said, and Stella tore her eyes from them.

"She is."

"You know her well?"

"Not yet. But I have the feeling I'll get to." Flack nodded. He, like most people, admired Stella and Mac's friendship.

"So," Stella said, wrapping her hands around her third beer. "Today's been horrible?" He inclined his head, considering this. What was the word for what today had been? How did you tell people that expected you to be tightly wrapped in grief that it hadn't been all that bad after all?

"Honestly?" he asked. She nodded.

"No. It started out pretty ropey. And I'll admit that I've been dreading it. But something happened today. I don't know. Suddenly it seemed like a door had closed, or something."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw Jess' dad. He's a great guy. And over the last year he and the rest of the family have kind of enveloped me…. like a grief collective, you know?" She nodded.

"And at first I needed it. Well, I needed something. But lately, its like, there's their grief, them who raised her and loved her all her life, and then there's me, and I don't fit in there."

"But you loved her too."

"Yeah I did." Those words dragged. Why had it been so hard for him to say that to Stella?

"But standing there with Ted today… I don't know. I don't even know the guy, really." Don felt guilt still. Just saying any of this out loud.

Stella picked at the label on her beer bottle, and he let his gaze go with her slender fingers for a second.

"He told me to move on." She looked up.

"Why did he say that?" Was it his imagination, or was Stella holding her breath?

"Because he's a fricking mind reader or something." He dug his fingers into his own label. What the hell. He sighed. Noticed the way the light splintered into her curls.

"I guess he could tell I've been thinking about it."

Stella

Not freaking out was going well. She was managing to have a fairly close conversation with him without betraying that something untoward had just snuck into her brain and now could not, would not be evicted. It had been a heavy day, she could blame it on that, and she knew she never left herself enough headspace for the rest of her life. She had learned to fill it up with work back when life wasn't kind. It had stuck. Or maybe she had never had a reason to undo it. Still, though. He had said something about moving on and had looked at her from behind jet lashes and her stomach had flipped. No more beer, she decided.

"Another drink?" he asked, sliding their empty bottles to the back of the table. She shook her head.

"I better get going,". He nodded slowly, glanced over at Mac and Aubrey, lost to the world now.

"I'll walk you." Oh, no. She shook her head.

"No need, really."

"Just out of this neighbourhood, then. You can go the rest of the way with your hood up and your gun drawn." She had to smile. Had to agree. She glanced over at Mac as they left, and their eyes met. He nodded, a tiny movement, then inclined his head towards Flack. Flack tipped an imaginary hat, and she wondered if they were parting or if they were passing custody of the lady. Mac never let her go home alone, no matter how much she protested. Mac and Flack in cahoots, now there was a thought.

One last look, and a fleeting half-thought, something to do with Mac and the way that, at last, someone had permeated the armour, and what that would be like, and they were out the door.

Into a downpour. The rain fell in huge sheets on the street, flooding the gutters and rising in waves as cabs surged forward in a snaking queue. Stella's hands went to her jacket, pulling it close around her. Flack looked at her, a few drops on his face already. He put his arm around her, pulled her close to him and opened the door of the first cab. She pulled back to protest.

"I can walk," she said, but rain fell on her lips and muffled her words. He frowned.

"Or swim?" he asked, and once again offered her the door. She gave in, and felt a crumbling inside as she slid onto the seat. Her defences were down, he was hustling her, being protective, and she couldn't understand why she didn't mind. It was raining, too. She loved the city in the rain.

He slid in beside her, a faint wave of aftershave and beer reaching her. She gave the cabbie directions, and the car moved off. He looked down. Then he looked at her, and she understood alright.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

She was so god damn beautiful, it hit him like a freight train. The wet night lashed at them as they left the bar, and her hair glistened with it. The neon and water reflected around them, bright blues in her eyes. There was suddenly only one conceivable course of events. She was getting in this cab with him, and somehow between doing that and reaching her house he was going to find a way to tell her something he didn't yet really know. Well, he thought, folding his coat around him as he got in beside her, this should be a whole lot of easy.

He listened to her giving instructions to the driver, her voice crisp in the hush of the cab. The rain beat down. He looked at the wet folds of his overcoat on the seat beside him. Between the few beers and the day he'd had, words had left him.

He was looking at her before he knew what he was doing. It was a hard gaze, and she held it well, her eyes so open and unguarded he couldn't look away. It was as though she had been waiting for him to look. He tried to read her, and then when he did, he wondered if that could possibly be right. He could feel her damp clothes, a kind of coolness between them.

His mind raced, briefly, ticking through the options and how bad this could be. Then he stopped thinking, and he moved forward. Her eyes left his, went to his lips and back again. The shape of a building to their right swept across her skin as they passed through its shadow. He kissed her. Slowly, electrically, and like he had probably always wanted to.

All the things that had been hovering around the edges of his mind put down roots. He pulled away for a second, just an inch, to give her chance to say he'd got it wrong. It all hung in the air between them. She was breathing harder than a moment ago. He held his breath. Then she curled her hand around his neck and pulled him into another kiss.

Stella

It wasn't the best kiss she had ever had. It was something so amazing, so stunning it couldn't be judged against anything she'd had before. Everything else now seemed like crude oil. This was something far and away better, and she just had time to realise it as the knot in her stomach tightened and her heart raced so fast that all rational comparisons took flight. And it was just him and her, and their touch, and the rain. And she let that thought in. That she could fall in love with this man.

His strong arms wrapped around her. They were both unsure, but both hungry. The cab turned a corner and tipped them back a few degrees. The momentary imbalance brought them closer, and she was so grateful. She hardly recognised herself, craving him, and tried to push away the certainty that it had never been like this before. Terrifying and thrilling as that was. He helped her out, softly passing his teeth over her lip, starting a tiny riot inside.

She had really messed up here. Not only had she denied her feelings, she hadn't thought about kissing him once, and thus was wholly unprepared for how god damn good it was. He was an incredible kisser, and she felt her mind jellying. He was unassuming, although somehow managing to also drive her crazy. His hands slid slowly up her arms and into her hair. One thumb brushed her cheek. Time slowed. She had so many things to say to him, but she wasn't about to give this up.

She willed the cabbie to take a wrong turn.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack.

He was vaguely aware as they pulled up outside Stella's. He hated the thought of letting go of her. The engine idled a bit as the cabbie discreetly pressed buttons on the fare counter, no doubt charging them the earth. He didn't care. Their kisses had dwindled to a slow burn, and reluctantly he tore himself away. She looked him right in the eye, and he felt something turn over inside. Christ. This is trouble right here, he thought. She tugged on his hand, opening the door to the rainy night. A dim light went on over her head. He didn't move. She turned back, eyebrows raised in a tiny pique. He kissed her one more time. For the road.

"Goodnight, Stella," he said, softly. Her smile broke, warm and gorgeous. She laughed a little, nodded. He prayed that she understood. He thought that she did.

She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed it, whispered to the air between them.

"Goodnight."

She shut the door softly, the rain drops on its pane shuddering. He looked through the wet glass at her, eclipsed in the prisms of light. Everything was technicolor tonight. She handed a twenty into the driver.

"Make sure he gets home okay," she said, and threw Flack a loaded look.

"I heard that," he called, his voice thick.

"You were meant to," she replied, and backed away from the cab. From the steps of her building she watched it move away, tail lights a fuzzy glow in the rain which had become light and lacy.

He let his head sink back into the seat. Gave himself a moment before it all began. Yeah. That could be the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Not the kissing, oh no. The not getting out with her. Men the world over were calling him an idiot. But Stella wasn't the girl you went home with. She was the girl you went home to. He ran a hand through his hair. The cabbie flicked the radio on. Awful music wove its way into the back seat, and Flack closed his eyes. Damn if that wasn't a big deal.

In his apartment he searched for sleep, but found only questions. He got up, took a shower, leaned into the cool tiles and let her come to him. Hands across his back, as soothing as it was sensual. He hoped she wasn't freaking out. He hoped she knew. That whatever this was - and he really didn't know - he was in the room with it.

Stella

Everything was wet, and she peeled her clothes off slowly, feeling new. She slung them into the machine and stood in her robe in the kitchen. She made some coffee. On her terrace she stood under the flimsy shade, now bowing with rainwater, and felt the night around her. She listened to the city going to bed, one person, one car, at a time. She waited for the thinking to start. Nothing happened. Instead she saw his face, in the stars and the beams of the millions of lights beyond her. Then, when she began to feel sleepy, she padded in and crawled into bed. And she wished he was there.

When she woke, it was with a start. Her apartment smelt different, as though someone else was there. In confusion she got up and wandered into the kitchen, finding it empty, of course. The temperature had dropped overnight and she was cold. She flicked the coffee maker on. Started for the bedroom, only to be interrupted by a terrifying smashing of glass.

She sped up, mind whirring to the exact place in her dresser that she had left her gun, where her jeans were, her phone, her badge. In the bedroom, a thick breeze tore around her ankles. The terrace door was shattered. On the carpet, in a pool of rain and shards of glass, a pigeon twisted grotesquely. She let out the breath she'd been holding, leant on the doorframe to recover. As she got her breath back, the bird took its last, and lay limp in the grey light. Stella padded closer, avoiding the glass, and looked down at it. It was a big bird.

Once she put the bird on the terrace, she got into the shower. She closed her eyes as the spray hit her face. Opened them, and through the frosted glass, there was Jess. Lying on Stella's carpet, bleeding, twisting. Stella lifted her arms to open the door, but nothing happened. She couldn't move. She could see Jess' chest rising and falling, slower and slower as the life left her. Stella screamed for help, throwing her shoulder against the shower door. The movement barely made a noise. The water got colder and colder, and she couldn't shut it off. She was trembling, teeth chattering painfully. She looked down to see the water run red around her feet. Redder and redder, thicker and thicker, rivulets at first and then thick, fat drops.

She sat up in bed like a shot had been fired. A thin sheen of sweat coated her chest. She breathed, thankful for the warm, ordinary sight of her bedroom. The clothes on the chair, the books on the nightstand. The cup of coffee she'd left on the dresser last night. No broken glass. She got up, went to the bathroom, just to be sure. The shower tray was dry. She leaned on the sink, let her breathing even out. _Shit._

She got ready slowly, foregoing the shower for a hot bath instead. Her limbs looked white in the water. Weak. She tried to recall the glow she'd gone to bed with, but in its place was only a new wariness. A dream, yes, but she knew where they came from. She was wracked with guilt.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

It was almost lunchtime before he heard hide nor hair of her. He was at a scene with Lindsay and Sheldon in Brooklyn when she called him.

"Hey," she said, and her voice warmed him. He felt like everyone was looking at the idiot's grin that broke as he spoke to her.

He wanted to say so many things. Nice to hear your voice. How are you. _Where_ are you. When can I see you. What are you thinking, about the whole, you know, kissing thing.

"Hey," he said.

"You're in Brooklyn?" she asked.

"Yep, 419 in an alley, makes a change, doesn't it?" He felt her smile.

"Criminals come in two categories. Those with imagination and those without."

"True," he smiled, and there was a generous moment of quiet. It was easy, and he thought of all the calls like this he had probably wasted over the years.

"So, uh.. I just thought I should check you were okay, after last night." She spoke softly.

"Of course," he said.

"I think I owe you an apology." He swung a look at Hawkes, who was busy lifting prints from a fire escape. He moved out of earshot anyway.

"Why do you think that?" He heard her draw in breath.

"I think I probably took advantage of the way you were feeling yesterday. I was having a...a strange day."

"Stella.."

"It was disrespectful to you, and definitely to Jess. She was my friend, and yesterday of all days… well. It shouldn't have happened, and I'm sorry." He was stunned. How could she be worrying about Jess? Should _he_ be worrying about Jess?

"Stell."

"Yeah?" He lowered his voice.

"Do you think Jess would want me to swear off women for the rest of my life?"

"No, of course not. But that's not the point. There's a difference between finally meeting someone and getting a little bit tipsy with a friend." Ouch.

"I just need to know that we're okay," she said. He looked up, watched the midday sun catch on the spikes of a chain link gate to his left. How could he have got this so wrong?

"We're always okay," he said, finally. He heard her breathe out.

"Good. I'll see you later?"

"Probably," he agreed.

"Bye," she said, and he waited for the hint in her voice that would betray her. Damn her if there was nothing there. He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket. He felt the morning warmth melt away as confusion and regret sank in. He stared at the ground for a moment, willing his brain to recover so he could go back to work and this could remain undetected. His colleagues had seen enough of him out of sorts. He didn't need any more of that are-you-okay-Flack stuff. The head tilting how-you-doing-Flack.

He felt a flash of anger. Yesterday had been a milestone, he'd been sure of it, and he should be over this by now. He blew out a long breath and with it the taste of this…whatever it was. If he couldn't find it in him to be royally pissed off with Stella, he could probably manage to get there with himself. He pulled his notebook from his pocket, flipped to the most recent page, headed back towards the street to start interviews. _Idiot, _he thought. Reading signs that weren't there. He took ten steps down the sidewalk before an alternative explanation popped into his mind. He stopped short in front of a shabby shop front. A cracked wooden sign swung in the breeze. _Keys while-u-wait_. No waiting, he thought. Not today.

Stella

She had the uncomfortable feeling that she hadn't achieved much today, and she hated it. It hung round her neck like a noose. It had started after the phone call, which at the time had felt like the right thing to do. It was the right move professionally, and personally, if she didn't want to lose a very good friend. She had hung up the phone neutral, and since then had gone steadily downhill into what she probably ought to admit was a bad mood. Stella did not, as a rule, have these. Fiery exchanges, time-to-get-the-bullet-out-of-the-horse-Mac moments, yes. But an outright funk? No. Not her style.

She was doing a really good job of starting lots of things and finishing none of them, constantly interrupted by her phone or someone calling down the hall that something or other simply couldn't wait. She felt divided, and as the afternoon got older, tired. She was glad Mac was out in the field, or he would certainly have called her on it.

The last thing she really expected was to see Flack stalking down the hall. She immediately hoped he was headed somewhere other than where she was, and then remembered their conversation, and that she was supposed to be cool about this, and pasted a smile on her face as he came in.

"Hey," he said, and she thought she could detect a faint trace of the same disarray she was currently feeling. Shrugging that off, she greeted him in return.

"How's your day going?" he asked, leaning on the table behind him.

"Okay," she said, feeling the early bricks of at least one wall springing up. "Yours?" Why was she uncomfortable talking to him here? Now?

He looked at the floor before catching her eye.

"Not great, really." Her shoulder sank.

"What you said when you called me, its kinda bugging me."

"Oh. Okay. Which part of what I said?" He shifted position slightly, folded his arms across his chest.

"Actually, all of it." Shit. She leant on the desk opposite him, cast half an eye towards the hall to check they were not being overheard. "Okay?"

"How could you have taken advantage of the way I was feeling when I'd just told you I was ready to move on?" She tilted her head, not finding any words. He went on. "And we weren't drunk either. We had three beers." He looked around before lowering his voice. "And we left together. Because _I_ insisted."

"Don.."

"You're making out like it was a drunken mistake." All day she had been interrupted. All day her phone had pierced the silence of the layout room. Yet now, when she would have welcomed it, nothing. _Great_.

"Humour me. _Is_ that what it was?" She laced her fingers together, flexed them this way and that.

"I wouldn't put it exactly like that."

"So then?"

"It was great. Okay? You were there, you know it was. But it's not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Which reason do you want? Work, friends, etcetera etcetera."

"Very good points. All two of them." She rolled her eyes.

"You know what I'm getting at."

"No, I don't." Her eyes widened. He spoke again before she could.

"Alright, here's what _I'm _getting at. I was sober. I kissed you because I thought there was something between us. If I'm wrong, then I'm sorry. If you want to forget it ever happened, that's fine. We can do that. But if by some chance you were, I don't know, playing it down because, let's say, you're afraid of having feelings for someone…. well. I think that would be a waste." She opened her mouth. He held up a hand, turned to go, pausing at the door to speak once more before he disappeared down the hall.

"And don't, whatever you do, hide behind Jess. Because that _would_ be disrespectful."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

Thanks for reading J

Flack

He knew he'd blown it now. Worse than just fluster her or catch her off guard, he felt sure he'd actually humiliated her, and that wasn't something Stella wore well. Hide behind Jess? That wasn't what he meant - not really. It had come out wrong, and he didn't think she'd waste much time trying to extract the well meaning from the sting. He half expected a bullet to chase him down the hall.

In the elevator he sank back against the buttons, not caring what he pressed. At ground level he kept his hand over the door button, keeping them closed. His eyes closed as he recalled the sensation of the rain on his cheeks as she kissed him. Of the soft hush of their mixed breath as the moment stunned them into silence. Of the breeze in the back of the cab after she had gotten out. Of the chill down his spine when he had called her this morning. Getting tipsy with a friend. The harsh click as she disconnected and he felt alone in a way he wasn't comfortable with. She wasn't - no-one was - supposed to be able to affect him like that ever again.

He sighed, and released the button. It was said, now. She knew his story, she only had to figure out her own. He had a suspicion this wasn't going to go his way, but for the first time in what was now a year and one day, he could feel the blood coursing through his veins and the fight rising up in his throat. That, if not a win, was a good thing.

As he scooted out of the front doors of the lab, he passed Danny and Hawkes, laden down with kit. Danny whistled after him.

"Beer tonight?" Flack stopped.

"Nah. Not tonight."

"Alright. You ok?" Danny called, heading off in the other direction.

"All good my friend," Flack replied, throwing a wave in Danny's direction, aware that his demeanour didn't match his words.

And then onto the street he stepped, feeling lighter, freer than he had in a while. He'd finish his shift, he'd get some dinner, he'd go home and sleep deeply, and tomorrow would be another day. The second day of year two. Year one was over, and he was in one piece. Bring it on.

Stella

She didn't really know what she was doing there. But at nine thirty she was leaning on the hood of his car, hoping it wouldn't rain. That would drive her to either go in or go home, and she wasn't quite ready to make that decision. Of course, every other cop she even vaguely knew came out first, creating all kinds of awkward (for her – surely they could just tell she wasn't here on police business) hellos and how-are-yous. Another ten minutes and she was the only one there, beginning to wonder if he was in there at all. She should have called. But that hadn't gone so well last time.

Eventually he emerged, jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair ruffled. Had she deliberately created this ultimate test for herself? Had she forgotten that he was, even to the unaffected, god damn beautiful? She could scarcely take her eyes off him. She saw the tiny smile that bloomed as he spotted her, and he no doubt saw the nervous hunger in her eyes. Right then she thought she might as well unzip herself down the middle, because surely he could read her to the very core.

"Hey Stell," he said, and now that he was closer she could see that there was some uncertainty in the pooling blue eyes that gauged her. "What are you doing here?"

She stood up straight. "I'm not hiding behind Jess." Her hair blew lazily around her shoulders in a baby breeze. "You're wrong about that." He turned slightly as two beat cops crossed the lot. Both were painfully aware that they were in public. He nodded.

"Okay."

"But you were right about something else." She folded her arms across her chest. Her voice was low, her eyes were steel, strong and cool. He met them with the attention they deserved. He waited. She stood perfectly still.

"There was something between us."

She watched as the words went in and sloshed around in his mind. She didn't drop his gaze. He didn't speak, didn't move. There was nothing he could do under the nosey eyes of his colleagues that was even close to enough for this situation. She knew it.

"Was, or is?" His look was almost playful. Curse him and his coolness. She thought of her hand curling around his neck, pulling him into her without permission from her better nature. The Stella that had done that - she was already out to dinner with him. This Stella, the one she was stuck with, was dallying around the edges, refusing to commit, refusing to stand still and open up. She clenched her fists, dug her nails into her palms.

"Is," she whispered, looking up at him just barely, as much as she dared. He moved an inch closer, and they had about ten seconds to move or share the full details of their feelings with the rest of the parking lot.

"Come on," she said, shoving her hands in her back pockets and wheeling towards the street. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee." She hesitated, waiting to see if he'd follow.

"Okay," he said, thinking he should probably learn a new word. On the street she walked east, pushing through a throng of young women in tottering heels coming the other way. He looked up ahead.

"I see what you're doing," he said, and she turned to look at him in surprise.

"What?" He gestured to the coffee shop in the distance and stopped in his tracks. It was her favourite, he remembered.

"This is about cheesecake, isn't it?" He gave her a mock serious look. She shrugged, nonchalant, walked on without him.

"A lot of things in life are about cheesecake, Don," she called back to him. He laughed, a lovely sound, and she felt warm as he caught up to her, steering her gently towards the crosswalk with a hand on her elbow. It was so light she could only just feel it, but she missed it when it had gone.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of them. You know what wouldn't be happening, and what would, if I did. I borrow and I return unscathed, I hope.

This is the end! Thanks for reading J

Flack

The cheesecake was really good, he had to admit. They'd been there before, once or twice, usually with others, after or in the middle of long days. Now they were alone, and he could smell vanilla and coffee and something else that could have been perfume. It was a heady mix.

He wasn't doing very well at the whole not staring at her thing. She'd done that thing with her hair that really worked for him – a bit of it held back, the rest tousled and loose. It framed her face and exposed her neck. The best of both worlds. He remembered the first time he'd seen her like that. A hot, hot day in the city. A scene on the street – a guy who'd tried to scale a skyscraper and fallen to his death. Stella had made an awful joke, and he'd said something about it to cover the fact that he was a little bit transfixed by her silken throat and honey skin. _Honey skin?_ God, he was turning into a girl. Yeah, face it. He'd pretty much been into her then.

Now, well, everything drove him crazy. What she'd said. He'd wanted to crush her tenderly against the car and explore every tiny lilt of those words. But he'd stayed where he was, eyes burning into hers, hoping to say it all without saying anything.

Now they were facing each other, and there were things to be said over the coffee that steamed gently.

"I'm sorry about what I said this morning," she began, stirring sugar into hers. "I didn't know what to think. I woke up and I felt… horribly guilty. I felt like the other woman. I know that sounds crazy."

"Not crazy." He said, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I find it really hard when Mac talks to me about Claire." Stella sat up a little.

"Why?"

"Because he thinks it's the same, and it's not."

"What do you mean?"

"I've never really spoken about this to anyone. I used to feel guilty even thinking it. Jess… and I really think we need to talk about Jess… so bear with me… Jess was awesome. She made me happy in a lot of ways. But we were only together a few months."

"I know."

"We weren't married, or living together, or even thinking about any of those things. The truth is, I don't know whether it would've worked out. And I promise you, she didn't know either." That lay on the table between them for a long moment.

"I feel like a fraud when people act like I've lost my.. whatever.. like Mac losing Claire. Maybe she was that person. But I didn't know it." Stella nodded, her eyes brimming.

"So what am I supposed to do? Grieve for her for the rest of my life, and never let another woman get close? Or grieve for the person I knew – the friend, the detective, the girl I dated - and not beat myself up about what might've been?" Stella's tears spilled onto her cheeks. He reached across the table, and took her hand.

"I can't grieve any more, Stella."

"I don't want to take anyone's place."

"You aren't."

"It feels like that."

"Alright…. Look. Cards on the table. God strike me down for this. I shouldn't even say this out loud, but you need to understand. You're not taking her place."

Stella traced a line on the table. He took a deep breath and closed the circle.

"I guess I always thought of it more as her taking yours."

Stella

It was dark when they left the coffee shop, the low jingle of the bell on the door sounding the change in their dynamic as they stepped onto the street. It was darker, cooler, closer somehow. They fell into step immediately, and it wasn't long before his arm found the curve of her spine. That place that he'd touched her before, back when nothing had meant anything. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I lied, earlier." She said as they walked slowly, her weight slightly inclined against him. She wanted to take his hand, but she wasn't quite ready for the way it might feel. She was savouring the moments.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I am scared." He nodded. A small convoy of yellow cabs passed quickly, glimmering colour in the low light.

"I've always been wary of getting involved with anyone. Even before Frankie. Much easier to be alone."

"I can vouch for that. Although you know, easier isn't always necessarily better. I think Danny would attest to that." Stella smiled.

"Lindsay, too," she agreed. "And you know, I think they've got the right idea." Flack tilted his head towards her, questioning.

"How do you mean?" She slowed, turned to face him.

"If there was the option of being with someone I know, trust already. Someone who gets me, who knows where I've come from…."He ran his hands up her arms, making her shiver. She looked at him, head on. He really was beautiful. She felt the loose pieces at the base of her wall begin to shift. She could envisage him redesigning her smoothing her edges, reassuring her. Later though. Now, he was waiting.

"Maybe that… that would be different." His eyes were huge as he nodded. He gathered her into his arms, held her still for a moment, and she felt strength and safety there. His chest was a landscape of muscle and warmth and she let her hands explore it through his shirt. His cheek was against hers, his lips next to her ear, whispering.

"It will be different," he said, and then he drew back, and let the light in between them. In it she made out a promise in his eyes, a chance and a certainty - and she made her own, silently, staring back, until he kissed her, and the vision dissolved into white heat and a slow melting at her core that would soon make it hard to stand up.

They kissed for a long time, until she mumbled something about dinner. He reluctantly let her go, and laced his fingers through hers as they turned to walk again. She ran her thumb across the back of his hand, felt him clasp tighter.

This Stella was going to catch that other one up.


End file.
